


The Art of Christmas Tree Decoration

by Lysistrata



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-02
Updated: 2010-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysistrata/pseuds/Lysistrata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Um, tinsel bondage? Christmas in 221B, 2010 style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Christmas Tree Decoration

**Author's Note:**

> Fill 2 for the advent challenge on LJ.

John was at the eye of a tinsel and bauble storm. Quite distinct from Sherlock’s mess of papers, conical flasks and chemicals, John’s contribution to the clutter was a cacophony of green, gold and red. A trail of sharp, dark needles led from the staircase to where John had shuffled the tree, and now stood admiring his manly efforts.

“I suppose you’ll tell me now that decorating a Christmas tree is another one of those things your brain has conveniently deleted?”

Sherlock didn’t even avert his rapt gaze from the laptop he had cradled in his arms, curled up in his armchair in rumpled pyjamas.

“Christmas is dull, John. Gaudy. Full of burglaries and domestics. There is a reason most divorces happen after the festivities.”

Typical.

John huffed quietly and returned to rummaging in the plastic bags he had now mostly emptied onto the floor. He pulled out a length of green tinsel and held it up in front of the tree, formulating his plan of attack. Lights first, or tinsel? Green and red, or green and gold? Absorbed by his task, he failed to notice Sherlock abandoning his laptop and eyeing John with increasing interest.

Still measuring up the tinsel, John almost barrelled into the tree head first when Sherlock unexpectedly breathed into his ear.

“You know, I think I could lend a hand with this - _decorating_.”

John turned, ready to berate Sherlock yet again on the pitfalls of sneaking up on ex military personnel, but before he could work up his best exasperated tones Sherlock slipped the strand of tinsel from his grasp, tried its weight in his hands for a moment, and then looped it around John’s neck, grinning in an unnerving fashion.

John sighed with mock indignation, in a futile effort to disguise his sudden arousal. He squirmed at the prickling itch the tinsel caused on his neck.

“Sherlock, I don’t think you’ve quite got the idea. Decorations are traditionally for the tree.”

A decidedly predatory glint sparkled in Sherlock’s eyes as he pulled John closer, reeling him in. John swallowed, hard, averting his eyes in the hope that he could control his reaction. They were separated by inches, then less, then _contact_. A cool, slender hand worked its way up his chest and throat, gently but firmly taking his chin and forcing his gaze back to those intense, intoxicating eyes.

“I like my way better,” he said, almost purring the words into John’s ear as he leaned close, hot breath playing over sensitive skin. He bit down, none too gently, on John’s ear, and John hissed as his cock strained against the tight seam of his trousers. Sherlock slid the tinsel from around John’s neck, as if to pull it around his waist, but then with a sharp tug at John’s wrists he had effectively pinned his arms behind him, and was proceeding to bind them with the rough, itchy length.

“Sherlock...” John started, voice wavering. Sherlock pulled back, smirking, and laid a finger over John’s lips.

“Now, John, don’t make me have to gag you with it as well. Something tells me that this wouldn’t be entirely suitable for the job.”

John bit his lip, increasingly apprehensive as Sherlock went about the task of thoroughly winding him up. A hand slid under the warm fabric of his jumper, fingers teasing at the soft curve of his stomach, dipping suggestively to the waistband of his trousers before, infuriatingly, moving away. Feeling a growl of frustration developing, John opened his mouth to break his enforced silence when Sherlock, still smirking like the cat with the cream, removed his hand from beneath John’s jumper and sank slowly to his knees.

The growl died in his throat, replaced by a deep and heartfelt moan of pleasure. Those quick, clever fingers were stroking at the straining flesh beneath John’s trousers, and John could feel hot huffs of breath through the fabric as Sherlock nuzzled into him. He let his head loll back as the fly was opened with agonising slowness, the fabric of his trousers inched down to release the firm, flushed hardness within.

“I never realised you were the adventurous type,” Sherlock drawled. John struggled with his breath as he felt fingers tease along his exposed thigh, never quite reaching his now aching cock.

“L...laundry day!” he managed to stutter out in explanation, biting back the admission that he had dressed that morning cherishing the fantasy of revealing his lack of underwear at an opportune moment. Trust Sherlock to be ahead of the game.

“Look at me, John. I want you to watch,” Sherlock said, voice quiet but demanding. John forced his head up to look down at the flushed face that was hovering, tantalisingly, over him. His legs felt in equal parts like lead and jelly as he forced himself to stay standing. Never breaking eye contact, Sherlock lowered his mouth and lapped at the bead of precome that leaked from John’s cock.

“Ngghhgggggggg.”

“Articulate as always.”  
John clenched his bound hands in a desperate attempt to remain silent. Sherlock would punish his inability to follow orders with merciless teasing. His efforts were rewarded and the slow, infuriating laps of tongue were replaced by the tight grasp of hands on his thighs and the all-engulfing heat of a willing mouth. Sherlock may cultivate the image of aloof disdain for sexual desires, but he loved sucking John’s cock.

Never breaking eye contact, Sherlock hollowed his cheeks and sucked, at first gently, on the head; tongue swirling, seeking the most sensitive spots, goading John into reacting. Feeling the slight shiver of his legs under the strain, Sherlock changed tactic and slid his lips down the shaft, taking John as far as he could and humming in barely concealed pleasure as he felt John struggle to remain quiet.

Closing his eyes to revel in the sensations, John felt a sharp pinch on his thigh. Struggling to focus, he looked down to meet Sherlock’s gaze. The look between them was suggestive of every sexual possibility they had ever explored – in this moment, Sherlock was asking John to remember every moment, every kiss, every bruising contact.

A hundred images of what he wanted to do flashed through John’s mind. If his hands were free he would run his fingers into the soft dark curls, grasp them tight and fuck that teasing mouth. He’d tear away the ridiculous pyjamas and reveal the pale skin beneath; bring their bodies together in the dark –

Then, suddenly, a shift of angle, the slightly firmer pressure of tongue and lips more forceful around his sensitive tip brought a shuddering end to his fantasies as John lost control and called out, moaning Sherlock’s name wantonly with his release. He desperately fought to keep his eyes on Sherlock as he suckled every last drop of come from him, delicately licking at the now too-sensitive head and savouring every taste. Finally his legs gave up the fight and he tumbled, ungainly with the lack of arm movement, into a pile of tinsel, foil and Sherlock.

Breathing heavily under the layers of wool and cotton, John sighed in the haze of contentment as Sherlock deftly removed his bindings, bringing his fingers up to his red, swollen lips to kiss. Shifting to remove a bauble that was threatening to give him a decidedly unfestive backache, John curled into his companion’s embrace and smiled at the rustle of tinsel beneath them.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Sherlock said, stroking John’s still naked arse with more than casual vigour. “I hear Christmas is a time for both giving and receiving...”


End file.
